The Art of Winning an Argument
by MissTempleton
Summary: Jack has some sorely-needed help, but not everyone's happy about it; and Phryne may have to dig out her inner tigress. In the meantime, can't academics ever get along?
1. Chapter 1

**Chapter One**

"Lennox? Come through."

Detective Chief Inspector Jack Robinson offered the infinitesimal hint of a smile which let the rookie detective know that, while not precisely God's Gift to City South Police Station, he was sufficiently sorely needed to be in with a chance of making it through his first week unscathed as long as he was prepared to take his turn at making the tea.

(If the reader is in doubt about the amount of information that can be contained in a smile, they haven't met Jack).

The door closed behind them; Constable 'Chalky' White turned back to his work, and tried not to look too obviously for the response from Sergeant Collins, who was busying himself with the kettle.

The pot was scalded, and filled. While it masked, Collins strolled to run a quick eye down the day book; and as he didn't seem to be particularly worried about anything, Chalky nerved himself to ask a question.

"What do you think of the new bloke, Sarge?"

Without looking up from the ledger, Collins answered mildly, "I think he's the new bloke, and the DCI's glad to have him, so take them a cup of tea, Constable."

Chalky went to start clashing crockery, but wasn't satisfied with the answer. "Shouldn't we be looking for detectives from our own men, though, sir?"

Collins' raised an eyebrow at the ledger, and put down his pencil.

"We should, and we do, Constable. And in the meantime, we have Lennox. If he's happy to spend hours standing round in alleyways instead of doing a useful job of work, and the Inspector's prepared to pay him to do it, Lennox is welcome to the job." He picked up the pencil again, but was aware of hesitation from the kitchen skivvy. "What's the problem?"

"What does he take in his tea?"

Collins gave a smile remarkably similar to the Inspector's.

"Milk and two sugars, same as everybody else." He turned back to the ledger and muttered under his breath. "If he wants something different, he can try asking nicely."

His words, though, were half buried under the strident ring of the telephone.

"City South Police Station, Sergeant Collins speaking? _What_? Okay, when? We're on our way."

He put down the telephone, and looked at it for a moment. Then he took a deep breath, and went to the Inspector's door. He knocked briefly, and walked in without waiting for a reply. Both the occupants of the room looked up, startled, but he only looked at the Inspector.

"Sorry, sir, but you're going to want to come – there's been a shooting. A man killed. At the library."

Jack was already on his feet, beckoning Lennox to join him.

"Drive us, please, Collins, I want you there too." The glance was swift, but understood. With a rookie to deal with, Jack also wanted a safe pair of hands.

They pulled up outside the library and parked nose to nose with a beautiful, gleaming Hispano-Suiza which just happened to turn up at the same moment from the opposite direction. Jack's jaw dropped for a moment, and he swung a glance to Collins, who shook his head in vehement denial that he'd invited the Inspector's spouse along.

"Miss Fisher," Jack acknowledged her curtly and turned to sprint up the steps, his men at his heels.

The Honourable Phryne Fisher had become, over the years, accustomed to doing without life's little courtesies from Melbourne's Finest; but her _alter ego_ , Mrs Robinson, was a little taken aback at Mr Robinson's abrupt greeting. Never one to hang back when excitement might be in the offing, though, she took the opportunity to share in their welcome from the librarians and scampered after the policemen as quickly as possible.

They were led by a librarian at a spanking pace to a stack room on the first floor, overlooking the street; despite its purely functional nature, it was a room of exceptional beauty, even without the lining of books on all the walls, and three lovely, long, free-standing shelves dividing the floor from door to the bay windows. To their right, they could see what appeared to be a trickle of blood emerging from beneath the bookshelf on that side. The blood was already starting to congeal.

There was a plain bench seat let into the window, with a young woman sitting on it. When Jack entered the room, he stopped so suddenly that Lennox and Collins bumped into his back. Phryne spotted the obstruction, but edged cannily round it, with a polite touch to a shoulder and ducking under an arm. It was therefore her face that the young woman saw first when she looked up from the gun in her hands to the party at the door.

"I didn't do it, Phryne," said Jane, in relaxed, conversational tones.


	2. Chapter 2

**Chapter Two**

" _Wait_."

Jack put a hand on Phryne's arm, even as she moved towards her adopted daughter. She looked back at him in confusion, but halted obediently. He nodded his thanks.

"Collins, would you please put on gloves and secure the firearm?" he asked quietly over his shoulder.

While Collins shouldered forward and donned his gloves, Phryne closed her eyes. This shouldn't be happening, but Jack was right – as it _was_ happening, it must be done correctly.

Jane gave the gun up to Hugh with a look of such absolute trust that he found himself biting his lip, then she folded her hands on her lap; at which point, Phryne flew to sit beside her and gather her into a hug.

"Darling girl, what happened? Are you all right?"

In the meantime, Jack was surveying the scene and drawing some deeply inconvenient conclusions.

Beckoning Hugh over, he turned his back on the scene in the library – perforce, requiring the Sergeant and Lennox to face the only witness. Speaking in a low voice, Jack laid out the _modus operandi_.

"Lennox, there's no time to explain properly now why I can't take this case, beyond saying that the lady with the gun is my wife's adopted daughter. Our force has enough to contend with in corruption allegations, and doesn't need more laid at its door."

He looked at Hugh. "You need to get to the telephone now. Get the Coroner; and …" he paused, and gathered his breath, "get Rossiter at North Melbourne."

There was a pregnant pause, in which nothing moved apart from Hugh Collins' jaw, which dropped a full inch.

"Sir?" Lennox spoke up. "If I might suggest a compromise?"

Jack's brow furrowed, but he remained silent.

"I've never met the young lady," pointed out Lennox. "If you felt able to trust me with the investigation, there could be no question of a conflict of interest arising."

"Lennox, you _report_ to me," objected the Inspector.

"Then allow me to tell you my results, but not to instruct me. Offer me suggestions, but don't direct my actions," suggested Lennox. Then he smiled slightly. "Sir, my first duty was under Inspector Rossiter. I think, in this matter, we might be more likely to conclude the case successfully without him."

Jack fixed him with a gaze. "I can confirm that I didn't hear you say that."

He glanced across at Jane, still sitting talking to Phryne; then back to Lennox.

"All right, then. What are you going to do first?"

Lennox smiled. "I'd ask Sergeant Collins if he would call the Coroner and seal the scene of the crime until she arrives; and I'd ask for an initial interview with Miss … Robinson?"

"Ross," corrected Jack.

"Miss Ross, alone," finished Lennox. Jack frowned. "I mean, without Mrs Robinson," he added hastily.

"It's Miss Fisher when she's practising her profession, and good luck with that – but go ahead," remarked Jack. He turned to Hugh Collins. "You heard the man, Collins. Get the Coroner over here and then seal the scene."

The Sergeant sketched a salute, and turned to execute the order. If his expression was slightly wooden, no-one saw fit to comment on it.

Lennox, in the meantime, went over to the window seat.

"Good morning," he said politely. "I should introduce myself: Detective Constable Robin Lennox of City South Police Station."

Phryne looked him up and down properly for the first time, and decided she liked what she saw. Around the same height as Jack, but of wiry build; his confident demeanour was offset by a pair of gentle brown eyes that held a hint of humour in them; his hair was a very pale blond, and cropped neatly short in an almost military style.

She stuck out a hand. "The Honourable Phryne Fisher," she smiled, "and this, as I'm sure my husband the Inspector has told you, is my adoptive daughter Jane Ross."

"He did," Lennox agreed as he shook it. "I was hoping to have a short conversation with Miss Ross, please."

"Oh, go ahead," said Phryne agreeably, settling back more comfortably. "You don't mind, do you Jane?"

Even as Jane was shaking her head in agreement, though, Lennox was speaking again.

"Ah – I actually mean to speak to Miss Ross alone."

"Oh, that's quite out of the question, Constable," said Phryne.

"Oh?" asked Lennox politely. "Is Miss Ross a minor? I hadn't thought it, but …" he looked Jane's way, and while his expression was solemn, his eyes smiled.

"No, of course not!" exclaimed Phryne.

"Then, you are perhaps her legal representative?" suggested Lennox.

Seeing an opportunity, Phryne's eyes lit up, but even as she opened her mouth to assert that in a _kind_ of a way she _was_ , Jane herself spoke up.

"No, she's not that either." She turned to Phryne. "Please, it's fine. If we can have questions here that mean I don't have to go to the police station, I'd rather get them over with."

"I can't promise that," prevaricated Lennox, "but thank you – I'll do what I can."

Phryne was looking from one to the other in disgust, and rose sulkily to her feet, to slouch across the room to where Jack stood watching with barely-hidden amusement.

"I don't think much of your new man, Jack," she muttered. "Far too full of himself."

"You think so?" he riposted quietly. "Personally, I'm rather impressed."

Lennox, in the meantime, had taken out his notebook. In careful catechism, he asked her if she knew who the deceased was (she didn't), how long ago she'd found him (she wasn't sure, but probably about half an hour), and how she'd found the gun.

That part was interesting. Jane sat forward, and her blue eyes looked up into his brown ones.

"It was in the books. That was how it all started. I pulled out a copy of 'Gorgias' and the gun fell right into my hands."

Lennox raised an eyebrow. "Plato? Are you studying Classics?"

Jane started. "Yes – I mean, no." Then she collected herself and started again. "Sorry, I'm not being a very good witness, am I?"

He smiled, "You're doing fine. So you're not studying Classics. Then why Plato?"

She grinned. No-one would have thought she was a murder suspect, least of all, she herself – this was starting to feel more like a casual chat over a coffee. "Partly out of interest, and partly because I wanted to win an argument with someone in my class. I'm studying medicine."

She saw light dawn on his face. "So, you looked up one of the earliest references to Arguing about Arguing? Now I understand. And the gun was hiding behind it?"

She shook her head. "I think it must have been resting on top. I only just caught it."

"And when did you see the body?"

She grimaced. "I saw the blood coming under the bookshelf, and looked round the other side. It was a bit of a shock, and I sat down, and then the door opened and one of the librarians saw me, and found the body. She shrieked a bit, and then ran off."

"To telephone us, presumably," remarked Lennox. "And you've no idea who it is? The deceased, I mean?"

"None at all, sorry. I honestly don't think I've ever seen him before."

"One last question. I don't suppose you saw anyone coming from the room when you were approaching?"

She didn't immediately answer, but he could see her re-running the scene in her mind's eye; then she shook her head regretfully. "No. And I would have remembered, because I didn't expect there to be anyone there. I wasn't really supposed to be there myself, only I managed to beg a favour from one of the library staff." She blushed a little at this, and he affected not to notice, but his demeanour became all stony professionalism once more.

"Thank you, Miss Ross, that will be all for now. I take it we can find you at the Inspector's home if we need you?"

She confirmed that this was so, and he stood to escort her to the door where Jack and Phryne were watching with barely-contained interest.

"Thank you, sir, I think we can let Miss Ross go home, as long as she will agree to remain available for further questions if necessary," he said politely.

Mollified, Phryne put an arm around Jane. "Come on, darling," she said, nose in the air, "let me take you away from the nasty policemen."

One of the Nasty Policemen looked mildly startled but the other's lips twitched a bit; they both lifted their hats to the ladies. As the women swanned off, their progress was monitored by both officers, and when they reached the stairs, Jane glanced back. Seeing that she was observed, she flushed again and ducked her head into Phryne's shoulder.

"What now, Constable?" asked Jack, as Hugh Collins mounted the stairs once more.

There was a short silence.

"Lennox." Jack raised his voice a little, and Lennox snapped his head around. Jack raised an eyebrow. "Try to remember you're the independent one, Mr Lennox, and this mad scheme of yours might possibly work," he said drily.

Lennox considered pretending he didn't know what the Inspector meant; then straightened up. "Yes sir. Next, identify the body and see if there are any prints on the weapon. And Sergeant Collins should start questioning the library staff to see if anyone saw someone entering or leaving the room."

"Carry on, Lennox."


	3. Chapter 3

**Chapter Three**

The identification was, in the end, straightforward. The victim's pockets contained considerable accumulated detritus; string, library tags, noisome handkerchief, and a wallet containing calling cards proclaiming the senior academic; a tentative enquiry at the front desk confirmed that the deceased was indeed Dr Mattheus Gold, adherent of the University of Melbourne's Classics department, who had been allowed privileged access to areas of the Melbourne Public Library not normally available to the city's eager readers.

Lacking a home address, the calling cards didn't give them much more information, and the Library only had the University's on his membership card; so, leaving Collins to await the Coroner, and reinforcements for the questioning of librarians, Jack drove his Constable to the hotbed of learning that was the University of Melbourne.

It has to be admitted that it wasn't giving much impression of the heat of its couch at eleven o'clock on that particular Monday morning. There was a smattering of student life lounging around, occasionally engrossed in a book, but more often engrossed in conversation with its fellows.

"I'd recommend we go straight to the top, Lennox," Jack suggested as he applied the brake.

"The Vice Chancellor? Oh … right." For the first time in his short City South career, the young man looked worried.

"I wouldn't fret, Constable," recommended Jack as he led them at a brisk pace to the entrance. "Just remind him that it's a murder investigation."

"It's not …" began Lennox, but at that moment they were greeted by a harassed-looking woman with flyaway silver hair, some of which was caught up in an unsuccessful bun.

"Yes? Can I help you?"

"Police," said Jack briefly. "Can you direct us to the Vice-Chancellor?"

"Oh! Oh dear. I'm not sure … oh well, I suppose yes, this way," said the woman, clearly flustered. Nonetheless, she managed to lead them down a corridor and stopped in front of a door which proclaimed in gilded splendour the office of its occupant. Knocking, she pushed it open, and stuck her head around it.

"Vice-Chancellor? I'm so sorry to disturb you. It's the police." A grunt of approval having apparently been delivered, she stood back and allowed the Inspector and his constable to enter the room.

"Ah, Inspector!" the Vice-Chancellor approached with a hand outstretched. "While I am, of course, happy to see you again, I can only assume that you're going to tell me something I'd rather not hear … and Robin, what on earth are you doing here?"

At that point, Jack was reminded of the last time he'd met the Vice-Chancellor; and he was also aware that his Detective Constable was hovering by the door in a surprisingly shy manner. At the greeting he received, Lennox shuffled forward into the room with all the confidence of a schoolboy caught breaking a greenhouse window with a cricket ball.

"Hello, Aunt Enid," he said slightly hoarsely.

Jack wasn't often left utterly poleaxed, but having already been reminded that he should have recalled perfectly well that the Vice-Chancellor of the University was a woman, to discover that she was also closely related his newest junior recruit left him temporarily at a loss. Still, he rallied valiantly.

"Professor Satterthwaite," he recalled with relief. (And having worked his way through a murder investigation involving two such named academics, the male of the species having turned out to be a less than satisfactory proponent of women's emancipation, to the extent of going to the scaffold for his lack of faith, Jack was at least able to pronounce the name without lisping). "We're sorry to trouble you, and I should perhaps clarify that Rob … er, Detective Constable Lennox is leading this investigation. I'm sure he won't mind, though, if I set out a few pertinent facts before he begins questioning?"

Rob … er, Detective Constable Lennox indicated that he was delighted with the idea, inasmuch as his apparent lack of oxygen to the lungs would allow.

"How very modern," remarked the Professor approvingly. "Good for you, Robin. Do try not to make a mull of it, there's a dear. Please go ahead, Inspector. What's happened now?"

Jack pulled himself together and assumed the appropriate expression (somewhere between sandstone and granite, for the geologically-minded). "I'm afraid it's bad news. You have a colleague in the Classics department, I believe, by the name of Gold? Dr Gold?"

"Mattheus?" As she answered, the Professor was once more collapsing into the desk chair, and tipped her head back against the cushion. "Not a colleague, precisely. His doctorate is from here, and he continues to use the resources for his work, but he's no longer in the employ of the university. A very successful academician in many respects. Is there something wrong?"

"As wrong as it could be, I'm afraid," Jack offered gently. "I'm afraid Dr Gold is dead. He was found at the Public Library this morning. He'd been shot."

Professor Satterthwaite stared at him for a moment, then leaned one elbow on her desk and the related hand on her forehead. She muttered something.

"I'm sorry?" asked Jack politely.

"I do apologise for mumbling, Inspector. What I said was Dear God Not Again," announced the Professor testily in stentorian tones. "I'm starting to feel as though I preside over a morgue."

"It really isn't like that, Aunt … Professor," Lennox interjected hastily.

"Oh, really, Robin?" she asked. "Then what is it like? Are we going to be comparing the experience to Little Big Horn? The Glencoe Massacre? Herod's rather tasteless treatment of The Innocents?"

Jack had intended to lay out the land and let his junior take up the reins, but this interview definitely wasn't following the script, so he decided to pick up the prompt book.

(Mixing metaphors is always to be avoided unless it helps the reader get a feel for the level of sheer rootless panic felt by most of the occupants of the room. If the message has been conveyed, then the reader is allowed to be grateful that half a loaf is better than two in the bush).

"I'm sorry to be the bearer of bad news, Vice-Chancellor," Jack said gently. As was so often the case, a reminder of the auditor's rank served to remind them of the people they represented, and while she wasn't exactly relaxed, Professor Satterthwaite allowed herself to be attentive. "Dr Gold has definitely been shot by another person, and at present, it would just be useful to know firstly his living circumstances and address, and second, whether you knew of any enmities that we might need to look into."

"My secretary will supply the address," said the Vice-Chancellor. "He lived alone, I believe. As for enmities? He wasn't everyone's cup of tea, but who is? On the whole, I'd say Mattheus was a charismatic chap. A bit like that Vegemite stuff - lots of people thought him marvellous, one or two loathed him. But he was sufficiently well thought-of enough among the academic crowd to be given the Dupray Award last month."

This clearly meant something to Lennox, but Jack had to ask.

"I'm sorry, I'm not familiar with that award."

She smiled slightly. "Why should you be, Inspector?" _Because my constable is_ was Jack's immediate thought. But she was speaking again. "The Dupray is unusual in that it's a cross-disciplinary award. Every post-doctorate from the University is eligible."

"And … what's it for? Is there a lot of money involved?" asked Jack.

Satterthwaite snorted. "Money? Hardly. Perhaps one day even _I_ will warrant a salary for this job, Inspector. No, this is a recognition of good academic work, assessed on papers submitted and voted for by - well, pretty much everyone. The prize is the rather-battered but highly-treasured Dupray Salver, on which the winner can fit twenty small glasses. He fills them with spirit of his own choice and at his own expense, and offers them to the colleagues whose work they themselves most admire at a dinner in his honour." She broke off and shrugged. "It's always been a man, so far. Maybe one day …"

"Did you vote for him?" ventured Lennox, and was rewarded with auntly dismissal.

"Of course not. As you should know, Robin, the Vice-Chancellor is specifically excluded from the process." She grimaced. "On the whole, I'm grateful. Strictly between these walls, I wasn't a fan, and I'd have had to read the paper he put up. Lorimer and Wright were particularly dismissive of it."

"They being ..?" ventured Lennox.

"Oh, come on, Robin, you met Christian Wright at your mother's drinks party last New Year," scolded the Vice-Chancellor.

Lennox reddened even further, but soldiered on valiantly. "Yes, Professor, but for the record, we're talking of Professor Wright of the Logic & Metaphysics department and Dr Lorimer of …"

"Moral Philosophy," she replied brusquely. "Of course, he's only arrived in the past couple of months. From Perth. Said they weren't sufficiently developmental. Quite how one's morality is meant to develop, I've no idea." She sat back and laced her hands over her ample bosom. "But then, in my line of work the answers have always been fairly Boolean."

"Ours too, Professor," agreed Jack. Guilty and Not Guilty having been his bread and water for most of his adult life, this was one area where he could show support.

"Still," she said, visibly cheering at the thought that occurred to her. "There's no point you wasting your precious time on me. You need to be getting along to Mattheus' digs. Don't worry, Inspector; I fully expect this to be _au revoir_ , but with a meeting of my Council in twenty minutes, I'd be grateful for a little breathing space. Robin."

This last was not so much an invitation as an instruction, and a lightly powdered cheek proffered. The Detective Constable bent dutifully to kiss it, and the Inspector led the way, via the secretary's office, to the car.

A studious silence was then observed until the doors were closed and the engine started.


	4. Chapter 4

**Chapter Four**

"Sir, I'm sorry."

"No need to apologise, Constable," said Jack mildly. "Believe me, I'm the first to admit that we can't help our relatives." He cast a sidelong glance. "Any other skeletons in your police-issue locker that I ought to know about before we get to the next appointment?"

He noted the hunted expression and decided to start the engine and pull away from the kerb before pressing the question.

"I've seen your record, such as it is, Lennox, and it's impressive; but as far as I can recall, you dived straight into the police force as soon as you were old enough. Tell me more?"

"My parents are both teachers, sir," he said, stiffly. Opening up wasn't, it seemed, second nature.

"Ah, then reasoning's in the blood," commented Jack, glancing over his shoulder before turning on to Swanston Street.

The response was delivered in muttered tones.

"What?" Jack, preoccupied with the traffic, was too harassed to be gentle.

"I-don't-know," said Lennox more loudly. Then, as an afterthought. "Sir."

Jack slid him a glance but said no more until they pulled up outside Gold's rooming-house. He turned off the engine, but rather than reach for the door handle, relaxed back against the door. "You don't know?"

"Adopted, sir," said Lennox. "I've been brought up learning to think by two people who have sacrificed a great deal for me. My mother gave me up at birth and I never knew my father, so there's a great deal about my background I'll probably never know."

He offered a challenging look. "Sorry if that's inconvenient, Inspector. I'll try not to let my upbringing get in the way of the investigation."

Jack regarded him calmly, and turned to get out of the car. As they both walked towards the house, he said quietly, "In my station, Constable, men prove their worth by their own work and nothing else." He paused, hand on the door-knocker. "I think you'll find you're in more congenial company than you could possibly have imagined."

Miss Fisher, in the meantime, was grilling Jane. Neither of them bothered to pretend that it wasn't what she was up to, because Jane was a grown-up and Miss Fisher was, well … tenacious. And Jane was showing two vital qualities of a medical professional - a strong stomach and rapid recovery time.

"But why on _earth_ would you go to the Classics store? I could have sworn you said you wanted to be a doctor! If Jack hadn't led me to you I'd have been wandering around the reading room screaming your name. I warn you, this may be the last time I offer to collect you from the library."

"I _do_ want to be a doctor. I want to be as good as Mac. At the same time, I learned to love Latin and Greek, and I needed help with something."

"What sort of thing?"

"Oh, just an argument."

"With one of your lecturers?"

"Oh no! No, one of the other students. A complete idiot. We call him Fester."

"Charming," remarked Phryne. "I suppose his name's Foster or something?"

"Forster," admitted Jane with a grin. "And he thinks he's so clever, because he can memorise anything." She reflected for a moment. "It would be rather marvellous to be able to just - take a picture of the human anatomy and nervous system and carry it in your head the way that he seems to do, mind you."

"Sounds ideal," agreed Phryne. "In fact, isn't that ninety percent of your job? Knowing when someone point to the bit that hurts, what it is they're pointing to?"

Jane giggled. "No! If I was really struggling, I could look that up. No, it's making the connections - working out what _all_ the symptoms mean. Fester's useless at it, and I'm trying to work up a way to show him. That's why Mac's so marvellous," she said wistfully. "She looks at a patient and sees the whole person, and joins up the dots like those puzzles that Lisbeth loves."

She looked around. "Actually, where is she? Lisbeth, I mean. It's awfully quiet."

Phryne sat up, arrested. "You're right. _Far_ too quiet." She stood, marched to the parlour doors and shouted for Elizabeth at a volume that would have alerted the navy, who were at the time minding their own business more than a dozen nautical miles offshore, but would have adored meeting Miss Fisher.

A friendly face appeared in the doorway from a kitchenly quarter. "Ma'am, Miss Elizabeth is currently entertaining guests in a Bedouin Encampment."

Phryne raised an eyebrow. "Really, Mr Butler?"

"Yes, ma'am," he confirmed, straight-faced. "In the garden."

Following his gesture, and pursued by her other daughter, Miss Fisher went in search of the youngest member of the household. What she saw when she reached the back door brought her up short.

Miss Elizabeth Jane Robinson was presiding, cross-legged, on a cushion at the door of a tent.

(Phryne had fond memories of the uses to which that tent had been pressed over the years, and shelved them hastily. Now Was Not The Time).

Her courtiers were lounging on rugs around her, being read to from one of her favourite story-books by her nanny, Mary-Lou. The noble knights Johnson and Yates (cab drivers and defenders of the downtrodden when they weren't busy worshipping at the feet of the Princess Elizabeth) lay on their backs. Bert Johnson was snoring gently, but Her Highness was too engrossed in the story to notice. Lin Soo, Phryne's maid, was also cross-legged and straight-backed, making rapid progress on a daisy-chain, while sipping some authentically sweet mint tea. The only person sedately seated on a chair was the nanny herself, for the pragmatic reason that it would take all the adults present to get her back to her feet if she descended to the ground.

Catching sight of the lady of the house, Mary-Lou paused in her rendition of the exploits of Millicent Margaret Amanda, which made Elizabeth look up.

"Mumma!" she cried gladly. "We're being a Bedroom Camp. Is it lunchtime?"

"By the time you've washed your filthy face and hands, it will be, child," replied her mother cheerfully. "Bid the court farewell, and go and clean yourself."

The rest of the company was hastily rising to its feet, apart from Soo, who carefully threaded the head of the final daisy through a more enlarged hole in the next stalk. The crown thus completed, it was ceremoniously placed on the head of the Princess, who then trundled cheerfully indoors in Mary-Lou's wake to be rendered presentable.

Soo stalked into the house to assist Mr Butler with the lunch (a process which would largely consist of standing with her hands neatly folded on a chair-back, watching him work; it seemed to do remarkable things for his productivity, so Miss Fisher could only applaud). The red-raggers recalled urgent business that needed them to repair to their taxi; and so Jane and Phryne were left alone again.

Slipping her arm around the girl's waist, Phryne drew her back to the house.

"So, did you say the book was Socrates?" she asked, judging - correctly - that the interlude had helped the horrors of the morning be comprehensively filed by her clinically-minded daughter in their proper place.

"Plato," corrected Jane. " _Gorgias_ ".

"Interesting," commented Phryne. "And it was stored on the same side of the shelves as the body?"

"No …" Jane considered. "No, the Plato is all on the other side. Funny, I hadn't thought of that. So either the shooter killed the man and walked round the shelf to hide the gun …"

"...or he shot from the other side of the shelf," finished Phryne. "I think we should let the Inspector know. It could be important."

Jane hesitated. "Yes, but …"

"What?"

"Do you think we could have lunch first? I'm famished!"

Phryne grinned. "Something tells me that you have exactly the survival instinct the medical profession needs, Jane. By all means, lunch first!"


	5. Chapter 5

**Chapter Five**

Mattheus Gold, the Inspector and his Constable soon discovered, had done himself well. Yes, it was a rooming-house in Carlton but the rugs on the floor were opulent. An entire wall was taken up with a bespoke bookcase, and a grand piano sat in the corner.

Jack thanked the caretaker, while Robin surveyed the room. "I wonder where he slept?" asked the Constable. The Inspector meandered round to the L of the room, and found a wardrobe with a rolled-up pallet stored on top of it. Scanning the room, he could identify only one spot large enough to accommodate it.

"Under the piano," he concluded, and they shared a look of faint disbelief. "Come on then, Constable - what are we looking for?"

Lennox put a hand to his hip and the other to his forehead. "I suppose, 'A motive for murder'" isn't going to be sufficient?" he offered hopefully.

Jack shook his head. "For me, that's going to be assumed to be anything that doesn't implicate Miss Ross, so you're going to need to be more specific."

"Okay …" Lennox gave vent to a sigh, thought, and tried again. "Aunt … Professor Satterthwaite said he'd received an award that some of his peers might not have been pleased about."

Jack nodded."So …?"

Lennox paused. "Evidence that he was good, or bad, at his job - acceptance or rejection letters from the journals. If he was bad, evidence that he was gaining support for his work by other means. Anything that suggests he was rubbing someone up the wrong way …?"

He looked up, and made the astonishing discovery that even Detective Chief Inspectors carried notebooks, and could, _in extremis_ , use them. Jack finished scribbling and saw his constable's expression. He grinned.

"Yes, I did also once have the ability to apply pencil to paper, Constable, and unless we come out with a cut-and-dried conclusion, we need a record of every step. Nothing wrong with your reasoning - let's get on with this."

It was a couple of hours later that the Constable's stomach rumbled.

Jack initially ignored it, and then looked at his watch, and realised that they were well overdue a lunch break. He stood up, stretched, and leaned over the list he'd been drawing up on the desk.

"Okay, Constable, what do we have? These are the letters in support of Gold's work in general; this pile is the ones that promised him the Dupray vote."

He placed his hands on his hips and cast his eye across the desk. "These are the naysayers." Two sheets of paper were carefully stacked on top of one another. "Wright and Lorimer, just as the Professor suggested."

"Yes, sir. The language in both is, I have to say, intemperate."

Jack started to scan them, then heard a further objection from the vicinity of his DC's abdomen.

He promptly stacked the papers together and picked them up. "Right, let's take this little lot back to the station." He raised a humorous eyebrow at Lennox. "Via the pie cart."

Lennox had the good sense simply to obey orders.

Thus it was that the second time Miss Fisher and her elder daughter saw Detective Constable Lennox, he had a face full of pie. He glanced up from his position in a corner of the front office of City South, whence he'd repaired to dispose of the rest of the evidence of his carnivorous appetite, and met Jane's eye. She covered her mouth with hand designed to hide a giggle; he choked. Eyes streaming as he gasped for breath, he reached for the glass of water he'd put at his elbow, and managed only to knock it over.

Phryne raised a supercilious eyebrow, and led the way to the Chief Inspector's office; where the incumbent was also consuming lunch but in a more decorous manner, and not too worried to be caught in the act by either of them.

"Miss Fisher," he said courteously, wiping his hands on his handkerchief.

"Inspector," she responded with equal decorum, all appearance of which disappeared without trace when she hopped up to sit on the corner of his desk. He gave her A Look. She shrugged.

"You've only one guest chair, Jack. Unless you want someone to sit on someone's lap …?"

Jane hastily took the guest chair and waited to see if fireworks were about to be set off. She was, after all, fond of fireworks, and Phryne's were always in such wonderful colours.

He decided to let it pass, though. "To what do I owe the pleasure?"

"Jane's remembered something about the murder that might matter," said Phryne briefly.

"Hang on," he replied, and walked to the door. "Lennox?"

A miraculously calm, grease-and-spilled-water-free constable presented himself. Jack indicated his chair politely to Phryne, who pulled a face _I'd rather sit on your lap and you know it_ and descended into it with all the grace of the Queen of Sheba dropping in for a gossip and swapping of birthday presents with Solomon.

Jane outlined the circumstances of finding the gun, after which there was a short silence while all those present considered the mechanics of the event.

"Where was the gunshot?" asked Phryne of no-one in particular.

"Chest, ma'am" responded Lennox briefly. "Coroner's report confirms entry high and right of the sternum."

Jack's head snapped round - Lennox had seen the Coroner's report and he hadn't? Then he remembered the ground rules and tried not to mind.

"Report arrived while I was standing at the desk just now, sir," said Lennox carefully, which made Jack feel better on several levels.

"So … we need to go and check, but it seems possible that the deceased was standing eye to eye with his killer, on opposite sides of the bookshelf, when the shot was fired," was all Jack said.

"So … they knew each other?" ventured Jane.

Lennox nodded approvingly. "Not necessarily, but we have to rule out the possibility, miss. Thank you." Then looked at Jack. "We'll need a precise height measurement for the deceased, and height of the wound."

"Go ahead," Jack agreed, and raised his voice. "Collins?" He then looked down at the ladies. "Thank you again. If I offer to let you know how we get on, will you please give us the chance to do so?"

The ladies exchanged glances and rose to their feet. Phryne approached the Inspector and, regardless of her audience, raised a hand to his temple. He ducked away slightly, but she was teasing the strands of hair with her fingers.

"What is it?" he asked.

"Hang on, just checking …." she said, looking more closely. "Yes, I thought so." She took away her hand and grinned. "Me. In your hair. Don't worry, Jack dear, we're out of it now!"

The Fisher Sashay was given full honours, and the Ross Stride was also worthy of commendation by all its appreciative viewers. Hugh Collins stood back to let them leave, and then entered to learn the Inspector's need.

"Not me, Collins," said Jack briefly, dropping back into his seat. "Lennox?"

Lennox outlined the questions to be addressed to the Coroner, and Collins listened impassively. Then turned to the Inspector. "Will that be all, sir?"

Jack was about to confirm that is was, then narrowed his eyes.

"One more thing, please Collins? Thank you, Lennox." Rising to his feet, he escorted the constable politely to the door. The sergeant stood back, and watched with a degree of caution as the Inspector closed the door and returned to his seat. Leaning back, he gestured to the chair opposite.

"Take a seat, Collins."

Alarmed, Collins came to attention. "Thank you, sir, I prefer to stand."

"Hugh Collins, I helped you get engaged, I watched you get married and I stood witness at your wretched brats' baptisms. Sit down."

At the loving reference to his children, Hugh relaxed slightly and perched on the chair.

"Now tell me what it is my new DC has done to rub you up the wrong way."

"N … nothing, sir," stammered Hugh.

"Then why does the temperature in my office drop by twenty degrees when both you and he are in it?" asked Jack mildly.

Hugh caught a breath, but couldn't find words to reply, and looked in a hunted fashion at his boss.

"Is it because he's giving orders?" was the follow-up. "Orders issued in direct response to a request from me that he help deal with a potentially difficult conflict of interest in the Mattheus Gold case?"

"He's a rookie constable, sir," replied Collins, "even if he is a Detective already."

Jack nodded. "And you thought we should be recruiting our detectives from the rank and file? People who've put in the time and worked hard? People like you, Collins?"

The sergeant paled, but met the Inspector's eye. "Yes, sir."

Jack sat forward, clasping his hands on the table in front of him.

"Tell me, Collins, what is it that attracts you about detective work?"

Hugh looked at him nonplussed for a second. "Well …"

"There's the pay, of course," offered Jack. "But apart from that …?"

"Actually, sir, pay's okay these days," Hugh admitted. "But I applied for Detective and got turned down again. Nobody tells you why."

"No, you're right. Maybe we should. And maybe I should just tell you to get back to the desk and get on with your work," remarked Jack easily. Hugh flushed at that, but stood his ground, and Jack relented. "You know full well I'll do no such thing. I need you to work together with Lennox and get the case closed. If you'd consider for a moment, you'll notice that he's trying very hard to avoid giving you any orders at all – he's no more comfortable with the situation than you are."

Collins pursed his lips, and had to concede that this was true.

Jack rose to his feet. "Help me out, Collins; with your experience, and Lennox's smarts, we could get a good result here. I'm not asking you to nursemaid him; just don't resent him."

"Yes sir," responded Collins solemnly as he stood and reached for the door. "Thank you, sir."

It was said with sincerity; and Jack nodded acknowledgment and hoped fervently that he'd just steered the City South ship away from a potentially fatal iceberg.


	6. Chapter 6

**Chapter Six**

Never one to shirk duty, the Inspector took both of his problem children with him back to the library to test their hypothesis. The elder child drove, while the younger sat next to the driver with a ramrod spine and expressionless face.

Jack sat in the back, and longed for the light relief of Miss Elizabeth, who at the very least would have been breaking the ice by simultaneously introducing herself to Detective Constable Lennox and checking that he liked riding in cars, asking Daddy where they were going and chastising Unca Hugh for not driving as fast as Mumma. In her absence, the temperature was still at least ten degrees lower than was strictly comfortable.

When they arrived, the constable guarding the crime scene proffered a sheaf of notes to his sergeant.

"Staff interviews, sir," Chalky explained, with a smart salute.

"Thank you, constable," Collins responded. "Anything the Inspector should look for?"

Constable White took the file back, and opened it at the first sheet. "Just this one, sir. It's not been typed up yet, and his writing's summat awful, but Wilson got something useful from one of the clerks. She says she didn't see the deceased go in today, but he's been back and forth to that room regular as clockwork for a fortnight. Arrives at about nine-thirty, never later than ten, and stays until lunchtime."

The detectives were both listening intently by now. "Anyone with him, Constable?" asked the Inspector.

"No, sir. Always on his own. Apparently he was doing some project on the sofas," announced Chalky proudly.

" _Sophists?_ " muttered Lennox in an aside to Collins, who'd blanched at the whole new angle the investigation had taken and hadn't wanted to imagine how it could have involved Jane.

He half-turned to the young detective and drew his head back in wide-eyed relief. "I think you must mean the Sophists, constable," suggested the sergeant with admirable calm.

"S'what I said, sarge," replied Chalky in injured tones.

Jack snorted, and led the way in to the crime scene. "Right, how tall are you, Collins?"

"Five-eleven, sir."

"Same as Gold. Right, you can be the victim. Go and stand on the other side of that bookshelf."

Jack then went to stand on the opposite side of the shelf - exactly the same height as his sergeant, the two of them found themselves eye to eye above the fourth shelf of books.

"Lennox?" Jack beckoned the young detective over. "Observations?"

Lennox looked, and contemplated, crouching down a little. "If the killer was any less than about five-six, they wouldn't be able to see over the rank of books to identify the victim; also, the height of the entry wound corresponds with the next shelf down."

"So, unless we're looking for a homicidal maniac of height five feet six or less who didn't care who they were shooting …?" prompted Jack.

"How tall is Miss Ross, sir?"

"About up to my shoulder. Say, five-three - five-four at most."

"Well, unless she's a homicidal maniac," he paused and smiled slightly, "and she didn't _strike_ me that way precisely, I think we can probably put her in the back row of suspects for the moment."

"In this case, I think your instinct is spot on, Constable, which allows me to resume a more normal role in proceedings," said Jack with no little relief; and he tried not to pay too much attention to Collins as he bridled with satisfaction. "Right, what else can we tell from this likely scenario."

There was a short silence while Lennox and Collins looked by turns nonplussed and mystified, and White glanced anxiously from one to the other, in the fervent hope that no-one was expecting him to say anything.

"They were facing each other," said Collins.

"They … might have spoken to one another?" ventured Lennox.

"More than that, I'd put it an odds-on chance that they knew each other," Jack finished for them. "We're going to talk to some of the other academics - and apart from anything else, measure them for height."

"Should we start with Lorimer and Wright, sir?" asked Lennox.

"As well there as anywhere," agreed Jack. "In any case, I want to meet the man who has the capacity to describe a fellow academic as a - what was it?"

"'Scrofulous carbuncle on the golden visage of learning', sir?"

"Yes, that was it. At least I didn't get called anything worse than _nincompoop_ by my algebra master at school. Perhaps you only qualify for the more articulate insults in higher education. Lead on!"


	7. Chapter 7

**Chapter Seven**

Sergeant Collins was detailed to return with Constable White to City South and attempt to discover the results of the finger-print checks on the weapon, leaving Lennox at the wheel to make sure the Inspector didn't have to do anything but nurture his little grey cells for the investigation.

Returning to the University, they were informed that Professor Wright had left for the day, but Dr Lorimer was believed to be in his office, so they went there first. A frosty tone bid them 'Enter' and a gnome-like individual with a luxuriant beard peered up at them over half-moon spectacles.

"What do you want?" he asked rudely.

Jack performed the introductions; the doctor was not noticeably impressed by the full recital of the Inspector's title, and appeared to contemplate ignoring the question when asked about his whereabouts that morning, becoming preoccupied again with the papers on his desk.

"Were you, perhaps, teaching, sir?" ventured Lennox.

Lorimer made a noise which could almost certainly have been "pshaw" were it not a well-known fact that such words do not exist outside the more fanciful regency novels. "Teaching? Don't be ridiculous. I couldn't possibly teach and get my study of the life of David Hulme completed. I was here. I'm always here."

"Can anyone confirm that, Dr Lorimer?" asked Jack. "Was anyone with you?"

"They'd have been out on their ear if they'd tried to disturb me," he growled, and glared at them both in case the message wasn't understood.

Eager to avoid being flung out on either of his ears, Jack tried a different tack. "I'm not sure if you might, then, have heard the news about Dr Mattheus Gold?"

"Gold? No. What's the fool done now?"

"I'm afraid Dr Gold was shot this morning. He's dead," replied Jack.

At this, at least, Dr Lorimer was moved to sit up, remove his spectacles and give the Inspector his undivided attention. "What's that you say? Dead?" He looked down at his hands and muttered something.

"I beg your pardon?" asked Jack politely.

Lorimer gave a half-smile. "I said I wish I'd drunk his port now. He offered me a glass after he won the Dupray. Tempted to throw it in his face - knew he was only doing it to spite me. Dreadful piece of work." He chortled evilly. "Mind you, he cut Christian Wright completely dead, so I'm not sure which of us was the angrier."

"You and Professor Wright were the only two people who opposed his nomination for the Dupray, I believe?"

"The only ones with the spine to do it," sneered Lorimer. "He was telling the historians exactly what they wanted to hear, and wrote it so beautifully that English were thrilled. Only Wright and I were prepared to flag up the appalling quality of the rhetoric." He peered up at them. "Have you been to see Wright yet?"

Jack conceded that they had not.

"In that case, Detective Chief Inspector, I suggest you get over there with all speed and ask him about Gold's ability to construct a logical argument." He rose to his feet, and paced around the desk to open the door for them. "And then, Inspector, stand well back."

He was chortling to himself, and didn't notice the two detectives exchange glances. But then, he couldn't have known how far he'd ruled himself out as a suspect as he walked to the door.

For whatever reason, the development of Dr Lorimer's brain had not been reflected in the growth of his stature. Jane would have towered over him. While Jack sympathised with what must have been a challenging physiological condition, it at least meant that they were unlikely to have to trouble the cantankerous academic any further.

No further discussion was required, and having checked his notes for Wright's address, Lennox started the engine.

They pulled up outside Professor Wright's residence, and the first thing they saw was a beautiful, shiny Hispano-Suiza parked at the kerb outside.

Jack considered. There was the faint - very faint - possibility - that Miss Fisher had followed up an urge to visit a friend of whom he'd previously been unaware.

He addressed the idea for a nanosecond, and briefly covered his face with both hands. He then walked up to the door of the house containing a possible murderer, and rang the doorbell. Being shown into the sitting room, he was comforted by the fact that Lennox, at his elbow, couldn't hide a sharp intake of breath. As he'd done the same, either they were about to burst into a duet, or they'd just caught sight of Professor Wright's other guests.

Jane was too preoccupied with her host's words to look up, but Phryne swung round in her seat, smiled broadly, and said, "Hello, Jack!"


	8. Chapter 8

**Chapter Eight**

At her words, the host looked up and his brow furrowed slightly. He looked to Phryne for enlightenment, even as he rose to greet them.

"Jack, this is Professor Christian Wright," said Phryne kindly. "Professor, this is Detective Chief Inspector Jack Robinson of Melbourne City South - also, rather helpfully, my husband." She paused, then added as an afterthought, "and that's Detective Constable Lennox."

Jack stretched out a hand in greeting and it was grasped firmly as he met his host - quite literally - eye to eye.

"Uncle Jack, Professor Wright was just explaining Modus Tollendo Tollens," said Jane cheerfully. Lennox perked up visibly, and moved across the room to join her on the couch.

"Excellent," said Jack noncommittally, not having the slightest idea what she was talking about. "Miss Fisher, a moment?" He gestured to a corner of the room, and she acquiesced in joining him there. The conversation thereafter was conducted in whispers.

" _What are you doing here?_ "

" _I could ask you the same question, Jack. I thought you were investigating a murder? I've been doing my best to keep my nose out and it's been very difficult. I hope you're grateful."_

" _Grateful? Phryne, we don't have many suspects at the moment but Wright is holding a clear lead. I repeat, what are you doing here?"_

" _IS HE!"_ She couldn't suppress a grin a mile wide. _"Well, I never. I was trying to help Jane out with her Fester problem."_

" _Fester?"_ Jack cast a worried glance at Jane, but she didn't seem to be exhibiting any signs of incipient leprosy.

" _Classmate. Good at facts, terrible at arguing, and terribly irritating, according to Jane. I telephoned Enid Satterthwaite to see if she could suggest anyone for a cup of tea and a chat about arguing, and she pointed us at Professor Wright."_

Jack promptly consigned the Vice-Chancellor to the devil's fiery furnace. As the Vice-Chancellor wasn't there to receive it, though, the glare in question was directed at Miss Fisher. She smiled lovingly, patted him on the cheek and returned to the comfort of an armchair.

Marshalling his remaining wits, Jack followed her, and tried to follow the discussion taking place, in which Lennox was now an animated participant. It was something to do with proving a falsehood with another falsehood, or something, and then there seemed to be something about elegant discourse based in a moral context. Despite himself, he started listening more actively, and it was only when Lennox glanced up at him nervously that he remembered why they were there.

"Er … Professor?" he interrupted when Wright paused for breath.

"Yes, Inspector?" the man looked up politely. "Oh, I'm sorry. I was enjoying myself rather too much. Are you _quite sure_ you're committed to medicine, Miss Ross?" he smiled.

"Quite sure," she smiled back. "But I think I may have to persuade a few people over to my side if I'm to do it well, so dealing with Fester will be good practice for that."

"Professor, I am afraid I am here on business - perhaps we could excuse ourselves …?"

Wright settled back into his wing-chair and smiled beatifically. "Please, no, Inspector. I have been discussing with Miss Ross and Miss Fisher the art of interlocution. I am happy that they remain, if you are prepared to countenance it."

Faced with two pairs of feminine arched eyebrows raised in silent challenge, Jack knew when he was beaten.

"Yes … well, I must first ask your whereabouts between the hours of nine and eleven this morning," he essayed.

"Ah. This would be about the sad death of Dr Gold," replied Wright.

"Oh. You were aware of that?"

"Miss Ross was telling me about her day," he apologised. "It was rather a major feature of it."

Jack cursed inwardly. So, he wouldn't be able to assess whether Wright had known already.

"I can only repeat the question, then - we are trying to establish the whereabouts of the academic staff during that period," he tried again.

"This morning? I think at that time I was engaged in a tutorial session with a particularly recalcitrant student," reflected Wright.

"Was that at the University buildings?" asked Jack.

"Oh, I always find my office the best place to conduct such matters," replied Wright. "There is a solemnity about the context. The rows of texts, crammed with valuable insight." He waved an airy hand.

The Inspector decided to bring things firmly back to the ground, and noted approvingly that all three of the other occupants of the room were very still, focused wholly on the discussion before them.

"Can you tell me about the ceremony for the Dupray Award?"

"In general, Inspector, or most recently?" purred Wright.

"We're particularly interested in last month's ceremony" confirmed Jack.

"Ah. Yes. Dr Gold was given the award, and delivered himself of a speech which would not have been out of place in one of the weekly magazines directed primarily at suburban housewives," recalled Wright. "He then produced a bottle of Cockburn's port. The 1908."

" _1908_?" exclaimed Phryne. "But that's terribly rare! An exceptional year!" She turned to Jack. "Even I only have three bottles, and two of those are set aside for Jane and Elizabeth's twenty-first birthdays." Jack looked suitably impressed, and paused to wonder what event could be momentous enough for them to open the other bottle. An idea occurred, but he shelved it. Now Was Not The Time.

Wright smiled. "Indeed. One of the very few things I found to admire about Gold was his taste in wine."

"Did you have any?" asked Jack.

"I'm sure you know that I did not, Inspector," replied Wright. "It was an oversight on Dr Gold's part."

"So the report of Dr Lorimer that he cut you directly was incorrect?"

"Oh, we must allow Lorimer his own … unique … perspective," said Wright cattily. "I can't say I noticed any undeserved slight."

Jane, by this time, had grown rather pale, and stole a hand to find Phryne's comforting one. Phryne had, however, been supplanted on the couch by Lennox - who, nothing loth, deputised valiantly.

"One last question, if I may," said Jack.

"Why, certainly," replied Wright. His outward appearance was still relaxed langour, but Phryne's narrowed gaze saw him stilled, and watchful.

"Do you own a revolver?"

Wright cocked his head. "I had understood it standard practice to issue all commissioned officers with a service revolver during the war, Inspector. Don't you have one?"

Jack shook his head slowly. "I wasn't issued with mine - I inherited it when we ran out of officers. And I returned it." He half-turned his head.

"Lennox, anything you wish to say?" asked Jack calmly.

"Yes sir," Lennox rose to his feet. "Professor Wright, I am arresting you on suspicion of the murder of Dr Mattheus Gold."

The class was so much in agreement that no-one argued. "Was it so obvious, Inspector?" asked Wright, all intellectual interest.

"I'm sure you have a technical term for it, Professor, but if I don't get a straight answer to a straight question, I'm generally going to assume someone's trying to hide something. I believe that it will be straightforward for us to prove that you were at the library this morning; that the 'recalcitrant student' you were interviewing was in fact Gold himself; that you were furiously angry that he topped his success in the Dupray by being overtly rude to you in a public, academic forum; and that the firearm used was the one issued to you during your wartime service." Jack's brow furrowed. "The only part I'm genuinely struggling to believe is that an academic would be moved to murder another academic purely because of a bad argument."

Wright nodded appreciatively. "Inspector, you have no idea. Had I the time, I would give you a list of people whose intellectual excrescence I would wish removed from academia. It would possibly run to several pages."

"But, Professor?" Jane, alone, was a little tearful. "Isn't there … what do you do when you lose the argument?"

"Then, my dear, you quit the field. Shall we go, Inspector?" He saw Jane's troubled glance, and patted her hand comfortingly. "Please don't upset yourself. I am entirely content to know that I leave a very clear message to my colleagues that they must be more careful in future about their distribution of academic awards."


	9. Epilogue

**Epilogue**

"Not in a million years."

"Phryne …"

"Don't be ridiculous, Jack."

"Phryne …"

"WHAT?"

"Nothing, dear."

A short silence followed, because Detective Chief Inspector Jack Robinson was a brave man, but calling Miss Fisher "dear" when she was in full-on protective mode was usually a sign that the battle lines had been drawn. It wasn't the end of the argument; it was very much the beginning.

"Jane is walking out with your junior detective over my dead body. She's far too young."

There was silence, for a little while.

"Fair enough."

There was a somewhat-more-pregnant silence.

"Do I need to re-write my will again?" she asked cautiously.

He smiled into the darkness. There was no other man on earth who would have had Miss Fisher consider rewriting her will. It wasn't the most obvious way to prove one's worth, but he'd take it.

"Of course not."

There was another silence while Miss Fisher pondered the problem.

"Oh."

Light dawned.

There was then a pause while she further pondered his position. Then she edged across the bed, and under his arm.

"Are you suggesting that you are prepared to give your life for me?"

He gave her shoulders a gentle squeeze.

"Are you suggesting that something might have changed in the past few minutes?"

Silence reigned. In fact, it has to be said, if there had been orb, sceptre and a few archbishops available to do the necessary, Silence would have been crowned King all over again.

A small voice muttered, " _no_."

After an interlude that wasn't particularly edifying, someone sniffed and someone else reached for a handkerchief.

"I don't know why I'm crying so much lately. I was a bottomless watering-can over Aunt Prudence and her Richard. I think I'll sleep in tomorrow. Maybe go and see Mac for a tonic of some kind."

"I'm not sure whether you're going to want to hear this, but I'm pretty sure I know why you're crying so much." He edged up in the bed, and removed the hanky from her grasp, to gain her full attention.

"Six weeks."

Her brow furrowed. Then her face fell.

"Oh, no."

"I think, probably, yes."

She buried her face in his chest. " _Once!_ I was going to do it once, Jack! We've been so careful!"

He knew she'd be aware of the way his heart had sped when she confirmed his suspicion. Was he to pretend he wasn't thrilled?

She groaned. The fact that she did so into a point somewhere just below his sternum meant that the emotion affected him violently and the rest of the household not at all.

He raised her head.

"Anything you want me to do, I'll do twice over – because I know that, like the first time you did this, it wasn't your choice."

She glared at him, but integrity won through.

"Of course it was my choice. It might not have been this time, but it took two of us. And who knows?" she said resignedly. "This time it might be a boy."

She rolled onto her side and strolled a finger across his chest as she thought out loud.

"Boys are useful for all sorts of things."

He nodded.

"Fetching," he suggested.

"Carrying"

"Fighting"

"Calming"

She laughed, and he breathed a sigh of relief. "I never thought to hear you wish for a calming influence in your life, Miss Fisher."

She raised an eyebrow. "It's funny what having a daughter threatened with death row will do for a woman," she admitted. "And I didn't want to go through another pregnancy, Jack."

She bit her lip, and his hand stopped in its progress around her profile.

He paused. "If you don't want to … I'm sure there's a safe way … Mac …"

He knew he wasn't making sense, or making sentences, but he was trying to give voice to the torment he faced. There could be no child if the price was Phryne's unwilling suffering – no matter if he, a policeman, was suggesting breaking laws upheld equally by State and Church – and, incidentally, his own heart.

She framed his face with her hands.

"Jack, love, don't be daft. Aren't we all about _saving_ lives, you and I? After Janey, how could I possibly? No."

She was no more coherent than he had been, but the meaning was clear. She offered a semblance of a grin.

"Look on the bright side."

He looked. The side he saw was indeed bright.

She reached across, and drew open her bedside drawer. Rummaging inside, she found a neat little case in practical plastic that he'd learned to love and loathe in equal measure.

"We can do without this for a while."

They'd exchanged smiles before. Lots of them. But this one had memories of bad times won, good times forgone, all with the interference of Miss Stopes.

Just occasionally, Miss Stopes could be cast to the four winds, and wished good sailing. Rarely had she been so gladly and carelessly bidden farewell as when the case was flung back into the drawer.


End file.
